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Abstract:
Emilia Serrano, the Baroness of Wilson (1834?-1922) was a Spanish writer who produced historical and sociological works, as well as novels, literary translations, and guides to conduct for young women. The book this excerpt was taken from is considered her most ambitious work. In it she displays an encyclopedic range of interests, including history, ethnology, climatology, and botany, and it clearly reflects her three overriding passions: literature, traveling, and a fascination with the Americas. In this Introduction, she provides autobiographical information about her personal life, how she became fascinated with the Americas, and her controversial decision to travel to the Americas alone.

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INTRODUCTION

While writing the first pages of this bookâ the interpreter of my impressions
and reflection of my perdurable memoriesâ I must return to my infancy to provide
some details related to this work, which will explain my predilection for
American soil and the reasons that drove me there.

I was very young when a fondness for literature awoke in me, or better yet, it
was born of the amazement inspired in me by two distinguished men, whom I saw
frequently in my house and who were friends of my wise uncle (my motherâs
brother). I can almost see them. One of them had a benevolent, expressive, and
frank countenance; an oval face; and a wide forehead surrounded by abundant and
disheveled hair. In addition to this, he had a very obvious intelligence, which,
just as his pleasant behavior and funny character, won everyoneâs affection.

The other commanded respect with his severe and classic beauty, with his
arrogant and

10

haughty demeanor, and
his name, which I overheard pronounced among admirations and respectful
consideration.

The first was MartÃ­nez de la Rosa [1]; the second was
Alphonse de Lamartine [2].

I remember my devotion upon hearing their political or literary conversations
and the impression they made on me. I also remember that I wouldnât blink or
move or speak a single word, afraid of missing one of theirs, which slowly
operated in my strange transformation, observed by my school friends. It so
happened that some mischievous and mocking girls nicknamed me Mademoiselle
Minerva, the only name that occurred to them upon seeing me more
inclined to spend the recess hours reading, rather than dedicated to the
boisterous joys of another time.

It was during some vacations, while summering at the foot of the Alps and on the
shores of the picturesque Lake Como, that I met an elderly neighbor of ours who,
among other manias pardoned by his advanced age (he was 12 years away from a
century), believed in metempsychosis or the transmigration of souls; he told,
with astonishing and formal conviction, of how man, through the evolution of the
animal kingdom, before pertaining to the perfect or Caucasian race, was first
Ethiopian and then Indian, in other words, of a colored race, a happy medium
between the first and the second.

The wise octogenarian added, with imperturbable seriousness, that his soul, upon
shedding its African wrapping, had possessed a Mongolian body and then became
one of the caciques who accompanied Columbus in all his voyages, beginning with
his discovery of the island he named Hispaniola,

11

until the day in which manâs injustices and
ingratitude caused him to die poor and desperate.

And lastly, he said that, upon entering in the third phase of his existence, the
heralded spirits of the past had related his story and placed him in direct
communication with Christopher Columbus once again.

The good MÃ¡ximo would become greatly troubled if his story was questioned, and
since he was profoundly educated and his conversations were entertaining and
curious, no one went as far as to contradict him. I would listen to his stories,
amazed and attentive. Perhaps it was because of this and because I was the most
credulous of his listeners that he was attached to me to such an the extreme
that I was his favorite, and he liked for me to accompany him on his walks, a
thing which I truly enjoyed because during this hour or more, I received
picturesque and varied History, Botanical, Literary, and even Philosophical
lessonsâ all of which the old man was well-versed in; his knowledge of the
subjects remained undamaged by his digressions through the world of spirits
that, on the contrary, lent an attractive singularity to his words.

The strange ideas that he harbored since childhood had made him spend the
majority of his wealth on collections of ancient and modern books related to the
history of the Indies. They were carefully stored, like a treasure, in a part of
his house where no one was ever allowed to enterâ not even the maid who served
him, although her forty years of service to MÃ¡ximo should have given her that
right. One morning, after a long stroll, during which I served as his support as
accustomed, he wished to show me his sanctuary for the first time, the place
where he spent hours upon hours sitting in an extremely old armchair, which
matched the large, book-filled tables and dusty shelves literally covered in
cobwebs.

While my strange friend rested, enjoying the beautiful view of the lake,
mountains, the fresh, green countryside, and the pleasant country houses shaded
by orange and lime trees, I devoured the piles of books with my eyes. Little by
little I lost my fear and approached one of the tables, leafing through the
first volume I found beneath my hand. It was The Last of the
Mohicans, by Fenimore Cooper.

I eagerly read the first pages and later asked for permission to return the next
day to continue reading. Since then, I had carte blanche to wander through the
immense archive as I pleased and was allowed to imagine new horizons discovered
by my dreamy fantasy. Christopher Columbusâ Voyages,

12

History of the Indies, by F. Las Casas [8]The Araucaniad, by Ercilla [9], and other works, were the source of my
enthusiasm for America. The graphically-described scenes of Indian life, the
discoveries and conquest, the battles, the heroism of the Spaniards and the
Indians, the tenacious and just light of the New Worldâs children against the
invaders, enraptured me to the point of forgetting everything that was not
reading, causing me to renounce strolls and other distractions in order to
completely surrender myself to my favorite passion.

Neither paternal reflections nor my motherâs soft words influenced its
moderation. They supported me, celebrating my eagerness and decided love for
books; the old man became a closer friend each day and, showing off the
excellence of my good memory, we sustained conversations in which I was not
afraid to venture to ask him questions. He generously answered them, looking at
me with his lively and penetrating eyes, smiling at me, content with the special
nature of my studies, which made my parents fear that I would abandon others
that I should follow, which they believed were more advantageous.

I was deeply saddened when the moment of our parting arrived, since I had taken
a liking to the wise monomaniac, who had a heart of gold, as good and as simple
as that of a child. Crying, I bid him farewell and my sorrow grew when I saw him
trembling, with eyes damp from emotion. I still have an old Venetian poniard
that he gave me, which he used to cut paper.

We were already back in Paris when I turned 14; the day on which my education
would conclude was fast approaching, and since my father was resolved to return
to Spain, I would have to bid an eternal farewell to school life. Yet, before
that could happen, my hand was asked for in matrimony; I exchanged my schoolgirl
uniform for a wedding dress.

My ideas and aspirations took on a new route; my reserve and exclusiveness for
reading ceased completely. My husband was delirious for trips, a natural
fondness in those who are born under Londonâs opaque sky and fog. He had been
educated in Germany, his motherâs homeland. A part of his family lived thereâ
they voluntarily expatriated during Cromwellâs rule after having seen Charles I
(whom they loved and served) die on the scaffoldâ and made Austria their second
home. Newly wed, these circumstances took us to the

13

Rhine riverbanks, carpeted with ruins and populated
with memories and Medieval ghosts.

There, my love for literature was reborn as I identified myself with GoÃ«the [10] and Schiller [11]. My
husband was a passionate admirer of both geniuses, who have completely
contrasting views and have no common points except that of their superior
intellect. They were two stars who, mutually attracting one another, became
greater, confusing themselves with one another and completing each other in such
a close friendship that the author of Werther [12] and that of William Tell[13] created a singular, grandiose and immortal individuality for
many years.

Oh, what a beautiful life GoÃ«the had! Laborious, but full of light, glory
accompanied him from an early age; he was lavished with honors and was the
object of general admiration, which is even more logical when considering that
in addition to his gigantic ingenuity, was the most perfect handsomeness.

We saw beautiful portraits of the poet in Frankfurt and Weimar; and his handsome
head reminded me of Lord Byron and Espronceda [14] They are
similar: they are three famous, colossal minds, who undoubtedly have had many
similar talents and aptitudes.

I will skip the varied details of that unforgettable trip; but I will mention
that, wanting to navigate through the Danube to the mouth of the Black Sea, we
traveled toward Ulma to embark and sail down the great river, an artery of
commerce for Levante, the crossing for crusaders into Serbia, and the battle
field for the Turks after the conquest of Constantinople.

After three months, we returned to France and in a few days we were in Italy.
Venice, Florence, Turin, Napoles, and Milan were the objects of our admiration
and encountering surprise after surprise, we arrived at the Caesarian court, in
the Eternal City [15]. Here, I must
admit that our first visit was to the Coliseum, where we remained for two long
hours, absorbed and powerfully impressed. We were speechless and the silence was
a thousand times more eloquent. The sun was setting when we entered the wide
amphitheater, in a short while we were enveloped by twilightâs shadows. In all
my life, I will never forget the sublime majesty that surrounded us.

The following day, it was time for our visit to the unparalleled basilica of
Saint Peter, wonder of the Renaissance. What a dome, what a building, what
luxurious, admirable statues, what sepulchers, what a temple, where the biggest
atheist or most materialistic person must feel and
believe!

Our stay in Rome was limited, because

14

we were to be in London on a fixed date. One unseen circumstance stopped us from
arriving in Paris. Two weeks later, my daughter, Margarita Aurora was born,
spreading hope and joy. The trip to London was canceled indefinitely, because
winter was approaching and we did not want to expose my black-eyed, blond angel
to harsh changes in temperature. All those cold and unpleasant months were the
happiest days of my life. I didnât frequent theaters or salons; I neither
visited nor entertained formal visitors because all the time I dedicated to my
daughter and my family life seemed too short.

Upon reaching this point, my memories become somber and very sad, even though
the memorable events of that time were the source of a complete change in my
character and manner of thinking, marking another path for my future. I do not
wish to cast a shadow over these pages with a detailed account that would be
painful for both the reader and me, since, despite the passage of time, the
wounds inflicted on my heart by the inexorable hand of death have not yet
healed; it is enough to say that two years after being married, upon turning 17,
I was a widow.

My parents feared that such a terrible pain would upset my judgment, because for
a few months I was not aware of what was going on around me; nothing was strong
enough to distract me from my thoughts, which always focused on the catastrophe
that had instantaneously turned the happy and lush fields of my dreams into a
wasteland, like a burning and volcanic flood that parches and destroys
everything in its path.

My Margarita was not yet nine months old; but, despite this, she consoled me
infinitely, even though sometimes the remembrance of lost happiness awoke more
vividly, making the present seem darker and more bitter.

I traveled, searching for that which was more in accordance with my state of
mind. I accepted my godfather, the Count of Diesbachâs requests that I visit the
Brou cathedral in Bresse province. Its magnificence amazed me; that churchâ a
superb remainder of gothic architecture, decorated as if for a wedding, like a
sumptuously embroidered mantle, dressed with all the polish and splendor of the
Middle Agesâ stood out in a country of rugged beauty, within a denseness where
the rays of the sun were barely able to penetrate due to the corpulence and
height of ancient trees.

After the first visit, I felt a vehement desire to be alone

15

and to study all the beauties that I had
expeditiously seen one by one; and early the next day I returned to the
Cathedral. The first rays of sunlight illuminated the rose windowsâ openwork,
the extremely high vaults, the marble tracery, the daring columns, and the
marvelous choir of granite that glistens because of its delicate and beautiful
labor. The impressions of that trip had a beneficial influence on my heart and
alleviated the profound sorrows of my widowhood, inspiring my article La
Edad Media [16], which, published in French, was first published in Parisian
newspapers and reproduced in Spanish by my very good friend, Francisco Javier de
Moya, who was, at that time, director of La Iberia. After that day,
I returned to my literary studies and my close connection with books in both
French and Spanish; I distracted myself by putting together some articles, for
which I earned severe critics as well as the approval and congratulations of
many distinguished geniuses either because they agreed with the thesis or
because of their indulgence and friendship for the author, which is more
probable.

It would be necessary to study womenâs history starting in a more distant time
and in more remote societies, the influence she has exerted on all peoples and
on all civilizations, and the strange vicissitudes that have oppressed her in
order to understand and value her merits and intellectual faculties; but this is
not the place, nor is it my purpose, to explain the pro-woman ideas that quickly
turn to imagination: there will be enough time and space to express them, and if
this does not occur, the events that have transpired since the publication of
and fulfilled in honor and glory of my article, La mujer de hoy [17], will speak for me and with more eloquence.

My love of literature continued to translate itself, not only in prose, but also
in verse, and without explaining how or through what merits, I suddenly found
myself among a number of editors from El Eco Hispano-americano
[18]. They were all very serious and profound people, like D.don Ramon de Lasagra, an older scientist, who, unlike the rest, was
devoted to the progress of women. Without a doubt, it was because I was a strong
supporter of the issue that he took a great liking to me. The elements that
surrounded me were designed to stimulate my writings related to America,
renewing my fondness for Lake Como. Lasagra and one of his friends, the Baron of
Guilmaud, the former minister of France in Uruguay, sustained many conversations
and in them, like in a pleasant panorama, the New World appeared before me, with
all its pomp and splendors. It was from those intimate and delightful
descriptions that my newspaper, Revista del Nuevo Mundo[19] was born;

16

the Baron of Guilmaud managed its
political report, and the idea it initiated would become a complete success: the
unification of all the Hispanic American countries with the motherland, whose
generosity would give them moral and intellectual development, a rich,
energetic, and beautiful language, new customs, and the consolatory Catholic
religion.

I tenderly recall the centuryâs most delightful dialogist, the man with the most
amazing creativity, who pleasantly entertained the reader; the many historic
licenses and improbabilities of numerous episodes were pardoned thanks to such
talents. What has been previously stated is enough to understand that among my
translations were some of Dumasâ works, including The Companions of
Jehu, Creation and Redemption, one of his most original and
strange novels, and various literary articles. I also translated Lamartineâs
artistic lectures, which had a delightful aesthetic taste, admirable critical
assessments, and well-defined brushstrokes, into Spanish.

During that time period, I wrote a short religious poem in verse, El
Camino de la Cruz [22], which the Rosa and Bouret house published as a
luxurious edition in beautiful vignettes and due to both that work as well as my
canto, La Guerra de Africa[23], I savored my first literary satisfactions, which
have a high price for a new writer and feign simplicity, elegance, and happiness
on the literary road. My compositions for Castillejos and Tetuan were published
in Madrid and were inspired by Pedro Antonio de AlarcÃ³nâs beautiful pages,
written in Morocco during the memorable campaign, and love for native soil,
which is for me, my love of loves.

I traveled expressly from Paris to Madrid in order to recreate the route taken
by the army that found glory in Africa, desirous to also cordially congratulate

17

OâDonnell and Prim, old family
friends. This time marked everlasting memories, some full of light, harmonies,
and aromas, and others soaked in tears and veiled by black storm clouds. I will
speak of the latter afterward and regarding the former, I will cite the most
important: a reading, the first I did in public; although it was for friends
and, I can say, companions, this event still worried me for many days
beforehand.

In the second evening gathering, held in a temple dedicated to the arts by the
distinguished sculptor, Piquer [24], who was, as many who read this will remember, an artist in
every sense of the word. He has dedicated this celebration to me as an exquisite
and gallant gift, the motive through which commitment would reach great
proportions; because although dramatic and musical sections took part in it, the
literary segment was reserved strictly for me. I can assure you that when my
turn arrived, as noted in the program, I felt that the lights centuplicated and
that the literary salon grew infinitely larger.

I have not forgotten that a Mexican newspaper, upon discovering one of the many
brilliant festivities that celebrated Zorrilla, said, âWhat does the Spanish
poet do betterâ versify or read?â If by chance this book falls in his hands,
perhaps some memory, blurred by the passage of time, will awake in his
imagination and bring to mind names and things that his lively muse consigned in
simple, beautiful stanzas and Moorish serenades.

Throughout my life, there has always been an amazingly regular and continuous
oscillation between joy and the deepest sorrows, happiness and bitter pain. Even
as I enjoyed the sweetness of my first campaign in the Piquer literary salon,
reaping my illusions,

18

the Baron of
Guilmaudâs death and my Margaritaâs delicate health hastily took me to France.

The battle was long and painful and the days followed one another, anguished and
full of mortal worries. Only a motherâs heart can understand the anxieties of
such terrible moments and the tortures that rip apart the soul and leave her
forever wounded. My angel returned to heaven and I remained on earth, resigned
to cruel despair and dead to joy and hope. Gone was activity, thirst for glory,
poetic enthusiasm, and instead of the harmonious choir of muses, the only sound
heard in my home were sobs and moans.

Paris held such extremely painful memories for my mother and me that we resolved
to move to Spain, something my father also wanted. We traveled for a long period
of time. I enjoyed the picturesque views offered by Galicia, Spanish
Switzerland; I loved Las MariÃ±as and the PadrÃ³n valleys; I spent
hours and days contemplating the tempestuous OrzÃ¡n in La CoruÃ±a and traveling
through the fertile properties of the Counts of Priegue; I conserve a vivid and
pleasant memory of the Anceisâ there, with the warmth of friendship, I saw many
peaceful and pleasant days.

From the Galician coasts, I went to Cadiz; from there I went on excursions and
walked my sorrows through the exuberant gardens in Puerto Real and the
delightful Jerez countryside. I visited Moorish Granada, my birthplace, which I
left when I was only a few months old. My mother generally accompanied me,
enduring with admirable patience the caprices of a sick heart that could not be
satisfied or gladdened by anything. Many of my lyrical poems belong to this
period: all of them reveal my eternal melancholy.

I also read a great deal, especially everything regarding the New World, because

19

I was so overwhelmed by the idea
of crossing the immense Ocean in order to acquire an exact knowledge of regions
that I had forged in my mind with all the magnificence of the ancient Orient.
That is to say, [I was overwhelmed] by its curious history, its strange,
prehistoric legends, the elegance of its Natureâ made eternal and unrivaled by a
fiery sunâ and the ancient ruins that attracted me with an irresistible charm.
The ecstasies of my restless imagination, as it wandered through American
forests and thickets, could be called golden dreams.

Overnight, it occurred to me to embark on a trip to Cuba, making a stopover in
Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo, which was recently annexed to Spain. My trip
lasted a year and a half and I will wait to share my impressions until the
following pages of this book; but I will recount what led to my ideal prospects
of splendid reality, feeling as if only from sketching natural types, habits,
real-life scenarios, and animating the image with some historic and picturesque
touches, could I create a complete, interesting study of the peoples which we
still lack much of to understand completely.

A short time after I returned from the Antilles, the revolution of 1868 struck
in Spain. I was in El Puerto de Santa MarÃ­a, scribbling the pages of my novels,
Magdalena [30] and El Misterio del alma[31], both
imperfect essays on naturalism. The political evolution produced strange
impressions on my mind and in my heart. My father had been one of the most
determined defenders of doÃ±a Isabel IIâs combated throne when she was very young
and the first name that I babbled was that of the Queen and majestic lady, who
suffered in foreign lands as a sovereign and a mother. The bloody episodes of
the disastrous civil war were familiar to me from a very young age, and they
were engrained more indelibly in my childhood memory because at times, and quite
frequently, the mistaken news of a battle, the exaggerated narrations (always
common in abnormal circumstances), and the dangers of military campaigns alarmed
my mother and made her shed abundant tears that were mixed with joy and loving
caresses for me whenever a letter or verbal message calmed her spousal heart.

Such a history, the crash of the throne as it fell in pieces, the ostracism of
the Royal family, the grave political incidents that occurred, and the general
state of the country caused a profound impression on me and made me abandon
AndalucÃ­a. Upset and uneasy, I went on to Madrid

20

to reunite with my mother and ask my father to
accompany me to Paris. One event could make the trip disastrous. Iâll get to the
point: my mother and I traveled in a carriage reserved for ladies and we had, as
our companion, a venerable old woman, worthy of respect through her class and
character. Very near Biarritz, she revealed her desire to stop at the bathing
beach, and with a friendly insistence and sweet persistence, she hoped to
persuade us to stay with her that night and said that we could continue the trip
the following day. My mother was indecisive because she had found an old
childhood friend in the traveler; but I, obeying I know not what inexplicable
feeling, fought our companionâs purpose. It was useless: fatigue made her
delight in the idea of enjoying some hours of rest in a good bed. When we
arrived in Biarritz, I felt my heart sink and by a natural impulse I hugged the
old woman as she got off the train, I was greatly moved and followed her with my
tear-filled eyes.

Even today I find it strange that I felt so much affection for the traveler I
had only known for the few hours our trip lasted.

On the second morning, after our arrival in Paris, I went to greet a majestic
exile and I found her profoundly saddened: there were tears in her sweet blue
eyes. A horrible event was the cause. [It was] a crash between two trains near
Orleans: the train carrying mail that was on its way from Bordeaux to Paris and
another that was carrying merchandise and on its way to Angouleme.

What a catastrophe! What a cruel and sinister end of life! I trembled in fear! A
memory overburdened me, a name left my lips! There was no doubt that noble
elderly lady, my friend of a few hours, had perished. Anxious to know the
details, I ran to the North station; with unparalleled anguish, I discovered
that only a few passengers in second and third class had survived. According to
what they told me, the half-burnt body of my unfortunate traveling companion had
been identified by a ring that had either a coat of arms or a name. She was the
mother of an erudite and well-known Spanish writer. Just four years ago, I saw
him in Washington and we recalled that very sad memory.

My absence from Spain lasted a few months, and during that time I consigned
myself to the American story with the utmost devotion; the thought of visiting
the New Continent took root in my mind with singular persistence.

I returned to Sevilla and, fulfilling a promise made in advance with Asquerino
[32], I wrote a
series of articles for his newspaper, La America,

21

titled, El Danubio [33], which I read a few years
later in the United States, translated into English.

Peter the cruelâs old court contained the sweet attractive of
friendship for me. What days and hours I passed during this time with the
ingenious writer of Andalusian customs, FernÃ¡n Caballero [34]; she delighted me on par with the kind
treatment and delightful speech of the distinguished Avellaneda [35]! Both the authors of Alfonso Munio [36] and La Gaviota
[37] have given luster and vigorous tones to this centuryâs Spanish
literature.

A literary evolution was beginning to dawnâ it was discovering ignored horizons,
wide paths for the science of writing, and it achieved a life of its own in
Spain, superimposing itself over French naturalism due to linguistic filigrees,
its richness, and delicate coloring. This literary movement was being accented
and thoroughly accepted when I, without paying attention to very serious
obstacles or logical risks, guided only by the vehement desire that hadnât
allowed me a momentâs rest for a long time, resolved to leave Europe to
undertake my investigations through the expansive New World and to penetrate
virgin jungles, dressed in the incomparable sumptuousness that the Author of all
creation limitlessly lavished on those regions. I dreamt of climbing mountains
enveloped in an immaculate, snowy mantle, analyzing, from there, the perdurable
beauty of the valleys, the picturesque all-embracing view, and finally, to study
the very singular types and primitive customs conserved by the indigenous
peoples in cities, villages, and huts.

I was truly in love with this idea; I could already see myself in the midst of
that majestic solitude, crossed by the daring Spaniards of the 16th and 17th centuries, who were such enthusiasts
because of their adventurous nature and boldness to become involved in risky
undertakings complicated by difficulties. I could not deny the rashness of this
subject, but my excellent health and the unconquerable strength of will
guaranteed that I would not fear moral or physical fatigue.

Driven by my impatience, I spoke to my friends and family about it on the eve of
putting my plan into action; there is no reason to hide the negative effect that
it produced. Everyone thought that it was absurd and there was not a single
person who failed to say these or similar words: âThe undertaking would be
grandiose if it were not impossible for a woman to carry it out; I think it is
greater madness than Don Quixoteâs. Do you think that crossing very extensive
territories, riding a mule deep into forests plagued with

22

all types of vermin, overcoming journey after
journey, climbing cliffs, crossing plains under the burning Tropical sun,
running from extremely profound precipices at every instant with, as they say,
your life hanging in the balance, is small potatoes? Why donât we disabuse
ourselves,â said my friend, âand not get any false ideas: in those Americas,
which were ours, communication is very difficult, and, of course, I assure you
that upon meeting those inconveniences, the travelerâs plans will not leave the
plan form.â

This did not make me give up and the reflections made by friends and strangers
affirmed my resolution instead of destroying itâ a logical result in
personalities like my own. The obstacles and difficulties gave my plan
importance since, without them, its fulfillment would not have had any merit. I
was resolved to leave from Lisbon because, according to my itinerary, my voyage
began in what was then the Empire of Brazil.

Everything that could be done or attempted was done and attempted by my friends
to dissuade me from the memorable voyage, completely disapproving of anything
that had to do with it; but, convinced of the uselessness of their efforts, they
trusted that time would bring about my disabuse. There was never any hesitation
in me, and without stopping, I occupied myself in making the preparations for my
departure. A month later, I left for Lisbon and after 15 more days, I embarked
on the English steamship, Tholemy[38]

This is how I began my voyage to the other world, not without having to overcome
serious difficulties, and I did it without having to alter any of my plans.
During the voyage, that continent floated before my eyes, full of splendors,
amid capricious curtains and canopies of innumerable ferns and climbing vines
that intertwined, snaking up the ancient trunks of age-old trees; before my
eyes, I could see the plumes of smoke, emitted by their Cyclopean volcanoes, and
the foot of the snowy slopes, surrounded and covered by green moss and the lush
branches of crowded, strange bushes. Taking in the unequalled view, my eyes
rested on the valleys of indescribable variety, on the small forests of coconut
palms and banana plantations that lovingly shaded the ranches,
where the Indians live happily, without aspirations or worries, with only the
bare necessities. The vegetation is so pompous and Nature is so prodigal that it
provides the quotidian nourishment in overflowing quantities, which require
short and simple work; it is fruitful because of the sunâs burning caresses, the
strong dew, or the abundant rain.

The peasantâs pressing necessities, caused by the rigor of Europeâs climate, are
unknown by the farm worker in a great part of those extensive

23

American territories, and you can be
assured that they enjoy relative abundance and wellbeing in their humble huts.
No, no; there were few times that we found misery covered in rags, that misery
that translates into that matt, colored semblance and the nervous tremors
provoked by hunger. There are never any cases such as those in London, in which,
without bread or shelter, men, women, and children wander through the streets,
half naked, starving ,and stiff with cold; no, no, we repeat. Great and
patriarchal virtues and sublime and divine words exist in the heart of those
societies: feed the hungry and clothe the nakedâ they are learned through their
practice.

Today, as in primitive times, hospitality is considered a duty and the European
is astonished by the manner in which it is practiced between the rich and the
poor, in cities and in the country. Luckily, egoism, the gangrene that feeds on
generous sentiments, has been slow to invade the New World and has very few
supporters.

And therefore, we are amazed to see that in the great political labor, in the
inevitable choices of young, newly constructed communities, neither the holy
laws of hospitality nor the respect of the most beautiful of virtues have been
altered.

The Indians were also hospitable in the time before the discovery and conquest
to such a high degree that the guest was considered sacred while he remained
among the family, even when they unexpectedly discovered that he was an enemy.

Just as in remote, patriarchal times, the position of honor in the house was
ceded to the guest, and attention was lavished on him according to the
hierarchy. These or similar ideas crowded my imagination and, on wings of
desire, they covered the distance left before setting foot on American beaches.

The Tholemy continued its course, making beautiful time; the sea
was so gentle and calm that its waters hardly rippled, like an immense lake.
What soft and incomparable auroras! What a sky, so rich in cloudscapes and
constantly pure and blue! What intoxicating afternoons and what indescribable
sunsets!

Luckily for me, I was also able to enjoy the poetic brilliancy of the moon
during my long voyage and that alabaster body, suspended in the clearest sky,
produced a melancholic rapture and ecstasy that I had never known before.

24

Complete silence, uninterrupted, except for the murmur of water that parted and
crashed as the steamship passed; the vast oceanâs mystery and solitude; and the
moonâs reflection on the tranquil and phosphorescent waves, caused indescribable
impressions on my spirit. Keep in mind that the moon is clearer, more radiant,
and more luminous in the American regions, and that its strength is such that,
just as the hot sun can produce sunstroke, the moon also produces its own
effects in the tropical latitudes.

The nightâs sovereign was, for me, benevolent. Despite my continuous
contemplation and the homage and vassalage I paid to its beauty for long hours,
it did not cause any indisposition in me whatsoever, as it is notorious for
doing.

A young Brazilian woman always accompanied me and enjoyed those marvels and
grandeurs while the rest of the passengers entertained themselves by playing on
the poop deck or shortened the time by sleeping like logs.

The majority of them were French merchants based in Rio de Janeiro and there
were two Basque families on their way to the banks of the River Plate in search
of a better future.

On deck, at the bow, some Portuguese men (pertaining to that class that lives
somewhat less in misery and earns miserable wages that barely cover their more
pressing necessities) were battling seasickness. The desperation and hope of
another laborious life, yes, but not as full of sorrow and poverty, had made
them search for a second home in Brazil.

Those wretches, nibbling at some cookies hardened by the heat, inspired infinite
pity in me, reminding me of so many Spaniards who, like them, emigrate
continuously, abandoning house and home, leaving European soil, worn out and
impoverished more each day due precisely to a lack of working hands.

Without warning, the climate changed very near the Brazilian coasts; black storm
clouds veiled the skyâs limpidity and quickly took on a threatening and imposing
appearance. The heat was suffocating and close, continuous thunder and
lightening announced one of those fearsome tempests of those latitudes. The
clouds accumulated more and more to unleash a torrential rain, so hard that it
completely obscured the horizon.

25

The steamship suddenly fell on its side, due to a late or clumsily executed
maneuver; the situation was critical, and the fear that gripped all the
passengers was not unfounded. The captainâs serenity and skilled direction saved
us, and the Tholemy, straightening itself out once again and
continued its course through the choppy waves that furiously crashed against the
gunwales and rose up like snowy cliffs or colossal waterfalls that threateningly
challenged our passage. Yet, another strange and entertaining spectacle
distracted us. A veil of various shades and brilliant colors had interposed
itself between the ocean and the sky, and, in rapid undulations, it descended
over us, extending itself over the deck, splitting into pieces, and invading the
stairs, chambers, and cabin.

It was thick rabble of butterflies fleeing from the rain, which sought refuge in
the steamship. There, scared and spreading their multicolored wings with
capricious images, they remained unmoving through the duration of the storm,
which lasted two hours, and when it ended, they took flight and after a brief
moment, we lost sight of them.

We could not see land yet; but the air swept in perfumes of neighboring forests,
which we delightfully inhaled, lifting our spirits and restoring our tranquility
and hope.

The atmosphereâs heat had cooled down with the rain and not a single cloud
tarnished the sky, which had been somber and sad not too long ago.

The ocean, although still agitated, forming white, fleece-like foam, began to
calm down little by little, and the last rays of sunlight made way from the
center of that giant ball of fire for unmatched skiesâ pink, opalescent, red,
and blue. The temperature that we enjoyed at that moment was delightful, the
type that submerges the senses in delectable ecstasy

Slowly, the hot gleams of the beautiful star, with its incomparable suite,
disappeared, replaced by the vague and mysterious crepuscular clarity that
predisposes the spirit to sweet melancholies and evokes treasured memories.

That last night aboard the Tholemy, I didnât get a wink of sleep all
night and I counted on the febrile impatience of the hours remaining until I
could jump on the American beaches. I felt as if my heart was expanding and
there were moments in which I experienced extreme joy and indefinable emotions.

The young Brazilian identified with my impatience and impressions because loving
maternal arms and the

26

embraces of her
two brothers awaited her arrival; she was returning with her father from a long
trip, begun four years ago, which was suggested by doctors after a long and
painful illness.

At four in the morning we could distinguish a far off, whitish strand that
almost confused itself between the ocean and the horizon.

âBrazil!â my trip companion cheerfully exclaimed.

âBrazil!â repeated the passengers crowded on the poop deck in chorus.

As for me, I didnât utter a single word; my eyes were fixed on the coast that
emerged from beneath the waves and became larger every second. The mountains
were now visible, although they were half hidden by the morning fog; the green
and lush leafiness stood out now, and the sumptuous vegetation could be admired.
Like a fantastic panorama, the precipitous Organ peaks and the
imposing rugged mountains, which looked like sentries defending the entrance of
the breathtaking bay, rose up.

And the steamship majestically advanced amid the bustle and movement that can be
observed in the moments before landing.

I will never forget the view before my eyes or the dazzling, portentous scenery
reflected in the gentle waters that were as clear as crystal.

It was nine oâclock on the beautiful morning of December 1873, when the English
steamship, Tholemy, entered the Rio de Janeiro bay through the
narrow opening formed by rocks, passing as it entered and almost scraping
against the singular and famous crag called âEl Pan de AzÃºcar,â [39] because of its
formation.

Not long afterward, we anchored near the elevated wall that isolates the
prodigious bay from the ocean, and then my eyes took in a breathtaking view,
perhaps unique in the universe, which I will vainly attempt to describe with
exact reality.

Before me rose the rugged cuts of the Brazilian Andes range, crowning the
forestsâ a marvel of vegetationâ the coves, and graceful meadows carpeted with
tropical flowers of various colors. The bright and burning sun bathed the still
surface of the vast and incomparable lake that reproduced all the splendors of
Nature and the rugged Corcovado and Tijuca peaks.

In the distant wooded plateau, among gigantic trees and pleasant forests, rose
the church of Our Lady of Glory; further off, and

27

among the clouds, stood an old Benedictine convent.

The strangest plants were within my view, entwined on ancient trunks and
stretched out across them like capricious canopies and artistic curtains.

Delighting in the tropical nature and endless marvels, I forgot that it was time
to disembark. Upon hearing my name, I was surprised and felt as if I had been
awakened from a profound dream.

âThe Port Commanderâs boat is waiting for you and two ladies are waiting for you
in the hall,â said William, an officer on the Tholemy, with the
seriousness particular to the English.

I ran to my cabin and quickly put on my hat and gloves; shortly afterward, I was
in the music hall, there I found the young Brazilian, conversing and laughing
with two Portuguese ladies, daughters of a landowner whom some of my sweet
friends had written to from Lisbon.

The two young ladies offered me their frank American hospitality in his name and
together we boarded the Port Commanderâs felucca.

Upon touching land, I felt one of those sensations that mark a milestone in
life.

I was in America.

I had carried out the first part of my plan and satisfied the vehement desire
that had developed at the shores of Lake Como as a result of old MÃ¡ximoâs
fantastic narrations and by reading descriptions of discoveries and conquests.

This long-cherished ideal was a surprising reality that made my heart beat with
enthusiasm and joy. America! Happy land, where wise Providence spread all the
treasures it held in its creating hand, now imposing with the majesty of danger,
now grandiose because of its elegance and poetry.

It seemed to me impossible that atheists could exist in the New World: upon
admiring Natureâs splendor, the most impious man would elevate a hymn to the
Omnipotent Being, creator of so many marvels, and humble himself under the
influence of his power.

Regarding myself, I affirm that in American lands I felt my religious faith more
entrenched; my veneration for the Supreme Being was more intense;

28

it mixed with an immense thankfulness
as my eyes scanned the torrents, the waterfalls, the extreme heights, the
volcanoes and their awful beauty, the marvelous forests, the incomparable sky,
the infinitely-varied birds, and the strange insects and animals that live in
the forest and nest in the dense, green tree bowers.

Many times I have thought that life is too short to understand and pay just
homage of admiration to the universal masterpiece and its divine Author. Our
understanding is too limited to sing its wonders: the pen is impotent to
describe them: colors are too pale for the paintbrush to reproduce them.

And in America it takes on gigantic and solemn proportions. It is
something superior to what the mind elaborated: reality
surpasses the most implausible ideals. This is incomprehensible for anyone who
has not traveled through this world, which was hidden for long centuries and
foretold by Columbus.